


days and nights of fervid life

by Lady Mondegreen (larkgrace)



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Gen, Post-Series, Pre-Series, gansey's journal, this is not the fluff you are looking for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 06:52:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4994488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkgrace/pseuds/Lady%20Mondegreen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Days and nights of fervid life, of communion with angels of darkness and of light have engraved their shadowy characters on that tearstained book.” --Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Nature”</p><p>An origin story (of sorts).</p>
            </blockquote>





	days and nights of fervid life

**Author's Note:**

> i was reading "nature" for a class and i saw that line and then i thought of gansey's journal as a representation of who he is and then i had an emotion. come suffer with me on [ tumblr](http://fishprincessfeferi.tumblr.com).

The day that Gansey buys a plane ticket for Henrietta, Virginia, he spends his last few hours in England dallying in the airport’s gift shop. He picks up a pack of candied oranges to snack on while he waits to board, then wanders over to the postcards. He is not quite fifteen, and unaccompanied in the shop; the cashier keeps shooting concerned glances his way.

Behind the rack of novelty cards with flashy pictures of Big Ben and the London Eye, there’s a rack of journals. Most of them are travel journals, plus a few photo albums, all with gilt edges and phrases like _vacation of a lifetime_ printed in fashionable serif fonts on the pages. Gansey flips through a few of these with boredom, careful not to leave finger smudges on the plastic sleeves of the photo albums.

On the bottom shelf is a small collection of leather-bound sketch journals. Gansey picks a medium-sized journal and weighs it in his hand; when he balances it across his arm he feels the comforting weight of possibility. The pages are ivory-colored and somewhat rough to the touch, with the thick texture of good quality paper, unlined and tempting. The inside cover has a blank bookplate with space for a name and the dates of beginning and completion.

Gansey buys the candied oranges and the journal and gives the worried-looking cashier a reassuring wave as he hears his boarding call announced.

-

When he arrives in his Virginia motel, the first thing he does is open his laptop and pull up the browser to start searching properties for sale. Then he pulls the journal out of his carry-on.

On the first page, he pastes his plane ticket and boarding pass, and a sketch of the Welcome to Henrietta sign that he tears out of the back of the map he was doodling on. At the bottom of the page, he writes _This is the beginning of something astounding._

#

He purchases an abandoned factory on Monmouth Avenue at eight on Monday morning, and at eight-thirty he settles into his first class on his first day at Aglionby Academy. He smiles and makes small talk and shakes hands and agrees at the end of class to join the crew team. His morning zips by in a blur of _just Gansey, please; I came here from England; born in DC, actually; I have an older sister; I like history and travel._ It’s the same song and dance he’s done several times over the past few years but it always leaves him a little overwhelmed.

He finds an empty table for lunch and pulls out a battered anthology of poetry instead of food—with the time difference, he’s not hungry, it’ll take weeks to adjust his body to the new schedule. He’s just marked a verse that he wants to cross-reference with one of his historical texts when a human hurricane blows into his table.

The hurricane is comprised of three boys, all of whom look just similar enough in facial structure for Gansey to suspect that they’re related: dark-skinned, light-eyed, with politician-quality dental work flashing in genuine smiles. The slimmest boy, the one with the fine gold curly hair and no uniform, asks, “Can we sit?”

“Of course,” Gansey tells them, pulling his backpack off the bench to set it at his feet. “Gansey. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m Matthew!” the boy says with an earnest wave in lieu of a handshake. “You’re new-kid Gansey, right? Sophomore?”

“The very same,” Gansey agrees. “Are you a student?”

“Not yet,” Matthew laments. “I’m just shadowing today. But Ronan”—he jostles the shoulder of the boy next to him, the one who’s extracting a sandwich from his bag—“is in the same class as you. Declan’s a senior.” Matthew points to the third of his party, who offers his hand to Gansey to shake.

“Are you three brothers?” Gansey asks, sliding a folded napkin into his book to mark his spot.

“Holy shit, how’d you guess?” the middle one—Ronan—asks, finally resurfacing with his lunch. He offers Gansey a wry grin to soften the sarcasm, blue-gray eyes curved into happy half-moons and curly black hair falling across his forehead.

Gansey says, “This school only wants me for my astounding powers of observation,” and Declan and Matthew laugh.

“Dude, where’s your lunch? Class ended ten minutes ago,” Ronan says, “put your book away.”

“I didn’t bring any,” Gansey admits. “It’s fine, I’m not terribly hungry.” Smelling the thermos of soup that Matthew just opened has made Gansey’s stomach sit up and pay attention to the time, but he’s still not starving. “Doesn’t the school serve lunches?”

“Wouldn’t risk it, man,” Ronan warns him. “Here, Mom would kill us if we didn’t give you something.” He offers Gansey a Ziploc full of dried fruit; Declan slides half of his roast beef sandwich across the table, and Matthew shakes a bottle of water in Gansey’s direction, indicating another half-full bottle in his bag.

“Thank you,” Gansey said, biting into his gift sandwich. “This is delicious.”

“Don’t let my mom hear you say that, she’ll start packing food for you every day,” Ronan warned. “Hey, when do you have Latin?”

-

Declan has an interview after school, but when the younger Lynch brothers hear about his living situation, Matthew calls their mother and Declan drops the three of them off at 1136 Monmouth to check out Gansey’s new home. Gansey wiggles his key in the lock until the ground floor door unlocks and creaks open to reveal the cavernous first floor.

“This place is a shitheap,” Ronan declares happily. He rolls up the sleeves of his sweater.

“Well then let’s get started!” Matthew says, and flips an abandoned trash bin right side up.

Two hours into their cleaning spree, Aurora Lynch arrives bearing cookies, lemonade, and a list of living essentials for Gansey. Ronan and Matthew’s hugs leave her blouse covered in dust. Aurora kisses Matthew’s forehead and runs a hand through Ronan’s hair, then tells Gansey, “There’s a shop vacuum in the trunk, if you’d like it. Niall has at least half a dozen sitting around.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lynch,” Gansey says as he takes a bite of gingersnap.

“That’s my mother-in-law,” she corrects him. “My official title is _Mom._ Aurora, if you must.”

A second-floor window opens and Ronan sticks his head out. “Gansey, man, get up here!” he hollers. “There’s all kinds of weird shit left in these offices.”

“I found a telescope!” comes Matthew’s distant addendum.

“Language,” Aurora calls up, her voice ringing clear without having to shout. Then she rolls up her sleeves. “Come on, then,” she says to Gansey. “Let’s make sure this place is fit for you to sleep tonight.”

-

That night, Gansey sits on his temporary bed—just a mattress on the vast empty floor, surrounded by boxes and suitcases and piles of scrap to be thrown out—and opens up his journal. He sketches Ronan Lynch’s burning eager smile, Matthew’s golden hair falling in his face, Aurora on her knees inspecting the wiring in the office. He copies down the numbers just entered into his phone, for safekeeping: Ronan Lynch. Matthew Lynch. Aurora Lynch, although Ronan had entered that one as “Mama Lynch,” with a laugh and a wink of approval from Aurora.

Gansey opens the cooler next to the mattress and pulls out one of the bottles of water Aurora had insisted on leaving him with. He cracks it open, takes a swig, writes _Beginnings in Henrietta,_ then closes the journal and drags the nearest box of books closer.

#

By the time Gansey meets Adam Parrish at the beginning of their junior year, Ronan Lynch is shave-headed and tattooed and angry and fatherless. Matthew Lynch is a freshman, Declan is graduated, and Aurora is comatose.

Gansey has tucked a bundle of notes into the back of his journal, left over from the bags of leftovers Aurora would send home with him after dinners at the Barns. _Make sure you’re eating well –Mom,_ the top one reads.

Adam Parrish is slim and clever-handed and wary of affection in a way that makes Gansey suspect his mother never wrote him kind notes. He’s as good at research as he is at cars and Latin and he makes the perfect addition to their team of explorers. With Adam’s help, Gansey’s journal becomes stuffed full with coordinates of unusual energy readings, clippings from historical accounts of Glendower’s court, newspaper articles detailing stories of strange sightings in Henrietta’s woods, and photographs of odd rock formations and twisted branches that might, at the right angle, look sort of like a perched raven.

Gansey dedicates a small portion of the journal to the Pig’s upkeep. Adam provides written instructions for changing the oil and reaffixing various vital bits that might shake loose in a neat print. Ronan plays tic-tac-toe with Adam in the margins.

On the back of the page with the portraits of younger Ronan and Matthew, Gansey draws Adam’s intricate facial sculpture and fringe of dusty hair. After a day of sun-drunken legend hunting, Gansey flips back to the portrait of Adam, wanting to start over from scratch and replace his closed-off eyes with the small, victorious grin he’d allowed himself after finding a high-energy spot off the highway.

Instead, Gansey writes, _Doesn’t he know that to be a son of the earth means to be its inheritor?_ Then he sets the journal aside to check on the sudden crash from Ronan’s room.

-

Adam, Gansey discovers, has a talent for asking questions. “What favor will you ask for?” is a favorite, usually spoken between towering stacks of books, or else over a plate of almost-too-greasy pizza.

“I don’t know,” Gansey says.

Adam frowns around a mouthful of garlic bread. “Then why are you looking for Glendower?” he asks.

Gansey laughs. “I enjoy the thrill of the hunt,” he says. Ronan snorts and flicks a balled-up straw wrapper onto Adam’s shoulder.

“So hunt deer,” Adam says. “Quail. I don’t know. Why a dead king?”

“He’s hunting for a potential mate,” Ronan says.

“He’s not dead,” Gansey says.

Adam gives Gansey a complete absence of any sort of _look,_ which in itself is a fairly intimidating reproachful look. A blank little _you know what I mean._

“I’m not sure,” Gansey finally admits. “Maybe I owe it to him. To find him.”

“Maybe,” Adam says, “you need to think about owing stuff to dead guys.”

Gansey doesn’t answer, but while he waits for Ronan to get back from the restroom he scrawls _Maybe I owe it to the world_ on the back of the receipt. He folds it into the front of the journal as a reminder.

#

Gansey wants to record his encounter with the shouty waitress from Nino’s when he realizes that his journal is missing.

He checks his desk, his school bag, the passenger seat of the Pig, the backseat of the Pig, the _trunk_ of the Pig even though he hasn’t opened the trunk in several days. He peers through the windows of Ronan’s BMW. He looks under his bed, under Noah’s bed, and even takes a cursory peek into Ronan’s room. It’s simply missing.

“Noah!” he shouts. Noah sticks his head around the doorframe of the kitchen/bathroom/laundry, although Gansey thought it was empty.

“Have you seen my journal?” he asks.

“Maybe you left it behind,” Noah says.

Gansey calls Nino’s, and the manager says in a sleepy drawl, “Uh, yeah, I gave it to…Sargent? Blue. Yeah, Blue has it.”

“I’m afraid I’ve never made Blue’s acquaintance,” Gansey says.

“Waitress. She was working last night. Super short.”

 _Oh, god,_ he thinks. “Thank you very much,” he says, and hangs up.

#

Monmouth isn’t empty when Blue arrives. Ronan is there, sitting with his back against the wall of windows, earbuds in place with Chainsaw in his lap. Bird and boy both ignore her as she picks her way through the model Henrietta to curl up in the armchair facing the windows and pull an afghan over her legs to ward off the chill.

Finally, Ronan says, “His parents called Declan about the funeral. They’re burying him on the family plot in D.C.” There’s a moment where Ronan’s mouth curls into a venomous snarl, and then he adds, “They told Declan to keep us away. Said we’re troublemakers.”

This, of all things, hits Blue like a slap somewhere low in her ribs. Her eyes itch with tears and her throat swells nearly shut with grief as she spits, “Those _assholes.”_ She never met Gansey’s parents, and now she thinks she’s glad. “I hate them.”

She’s shaking from crying so hard. She wishes Noah was here, but he hasn’t appeared since—she doesn’t finish it in her mind, still convinced in some small armored part of her that Gansey is going to stride through the front door, wearing boat shoes and a hideous polo shirt and a sparkling smile just for her. Noah hasn’t appeared since, and the only person here to cry on is Ronan, Cabeswater’s creature made of so many gorgeous magical things that he leaks poison and sunlight at the seams. Ronan’s shoulder is sharp and uncomfortable under her cheek, but he shifts Chainsaw to the floor and pulls Blue into his lap. Blue offers him the courtesy of ignoring the way his chest shakes and his breath hitches.

“We’ll have our own funeral,” Ronan finally says, voice a little hoarse but impressively stable. “A proper one. A hero’s send-off. Those bastards don’t know what they’re doing anyway.”

“God forbid they bury him with his head to the east,” Blue hiccups.

Adam appears sometime in the middle of Blue’s crying and Ronan’s not-crying. For all that he’s been vaguely inhuman for the past year, now he is unsettling. As far as Blue knows, he hasn’t cried once; he only seems distantly upset. Disconnected.

He sits shoulder-to-shoulder with Ronan, strokes Chainsaw’s feathers, and doesn’t speak at all; just drags the afghan off the armchair and drapes it over Blue and Ronan.

#

They have two funerals, in the end, because they can’t decide which one Gansey would like best. The first isn’t public, but it isn’t private, either. Some Aglionby boys—Gansey’s old crew team, Henry Cheng—show up just under the bridge two streets over from Monmouth for the service.

Blue places the boat in the river: one of Ronan’s dream creations, small but steady, bearing Gansey’s collection of mint leaves and a picture of him smiling into the distance, weighed down by Gansey’s favorite fountain pen. Adam strikes a match on the bridge support and throws it into the boat as it drifts downstream. The little coracle catches the flame beautifully, nurturing it into a proper Viking blaze.

“God bless you, Dick, you glorious bastard,” Henry says solemnly.

“Save me a seat in Hell, asshole,” Ronan grunts. Blue punches him with less enthusiasm than she’d intended. If anyone deserves a shot at Heaven, it’s Gansey.

“Safe journey, Gansey,” Adam murmurs, eyes trained on the floating inferno.

Blue swallows and pulls her cardigan tighter around her shoulders. Her neck prickles with the feeling of eyes on her, so finally she says, “I’m sorry.”

Adam and Ronan press close on either side of her, and their little group keeps its vigil until the burning boat has disappeared from sight.

-

The second service is private, and there is no fire. Instead there is a somber procession from the BMW to the clearing with an abandoned Mustang, and a sacrificial stone circle that had once held the bones of a murdered boy.

Blue pulls the journal out from under her jacket and a pen from inside her boot. She opens the front cover, and fills in the last blank line on the bookplate, the line for date of completion. She enters the date of Gansey’s death, then shuts the journal and knots the leather ties for the last time.

Blue passes the journal to Ronan, who cradles it as gently as he held a baby mouse, once. Ronan swipes a bit of imaginary dust off the cover, then settles the journal on the ground in the center of the circle, the top of the book pointing west. Like a proper hero.

Adam raises his head to the trees and shouts, “Take care of him, Cabeswater. Please. _Foveat eum.”_

The three of them stand there for an untraceable amount of time, waiting, but Cabeswater doesn’t respond. Finally, Ronan leads them back to the BMW, and they leave Cabeswater in the rearview.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Foveat eum._ Latin, “cherish him.”


End file.
